


What're You Waiting For

by AreWeAsBandits



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy's bad at this, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Murphy is too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreWeAsBandits/pseuds/AreWeAsBandits
Summary: She kisses Murphy’s cheek and while he makes a show of wiping it off, she kisses Bellamy’s forehead again. “I’m not asking you to check his pulse and give him a sponge bath, Murph. Just channel the empathy I know’s inside you somewhere for a few hours until I get back home.”“He’ssitting right here,” Bellamy says, annoyed by every single thing happening in his life right now. Neither Octavia nor Murphy so much as look at him.“Empathy?” Murphy crosses his arms. “Have you met me?”Octavia studies Murphy for a moment, sighs, and says, “Yeah…Dig deep.”She pats Murphy twice on the shoulder and then she’s gone, leaving Murphy and Bellamy alone to stare at each other over a coffee table littered with a variety of cough syrups and cold medicines and boxes of tissues.---Bellamy's sick and neither he nor Murphy have any idea what they're doing.





	What're You Waiting For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Dangerous_Time](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Dangerous_Time/gifts).



“Shut up, Bell. You’re not dying.”

Bellamy tries to sit up to glare at Octavia, but his head throbs and his muscles ache and he sinks back down onto the couch with a groan. “I think I am, O. I’ve never felt like this before.”

Octavia rolls her eyes and plants a kiss on his forehead. “You have a fever. Probably the flu. You’ll feel like shit for a week and then you’ll be fine.”

“My head really hurts,” he insists. “Some guys at the station were talking about meningitis the other day and it fits, O. Headache, chills, lethargy. I could be dead in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Fucking hell, do you even hear yourself?”

Offended by his sister’s obvious lack of compassion, Bellamy opens his mouth to retort, but the doorbell stops him before he can. “Who’s that?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows with some difficulty to track Octavia’s movement through the living room.

“I called Murphy,” she says, like that’s a normal, perfectly acceptable thing to do.

Bellamy’s chest seizes and he chokes out a strangled, “What?”

He looks like shit—he _feels_ like shit—and the _last_ things he needs right now are Murphy seeing him this way and Murphy being…Murphy. He can’t handle the coy remarks today, or the sarcasm, or the sly smirks. He can’t handle the too-friendly hands resting across his shoulders, fingers brushing his skin, or the thigh pressed up warm and insistent against his. He is not at all confident that he has the energy, the capability, to push down everything he feels when his brain is already buzzing like radio static. He heaves himself into a sitting position. “Octavia, wait—”

But she’s already swinging open the door.

Even from the couch, Bellamy can see the smug smile on Murphy’s face. “Your knight in shining armor arrives, bearing gifts,” Murphy says. He holds up a can of chicken noodle soup and a bottle of whiskey and grins the most self-satisfied grin Bellamy has ever seen.

He wants to crawl under the blanket and die.

“Thank god,” Octavia sighs, grabbing Murphy by the wrist and pulling him inside, dragging him back across the room to Bellamy. “I have to go to work and _someone’s_ convinced he’s dying, so just make sure he doesn’t, okay?”

“Shit, wait, you’re leaving me alone to take care of him?” Murphy looks from Octavia to Bellamy and back again. In a flash, his expression shifts from the smooth confidence Bellamy’s all too accustomed to into one of clear, abject terror. He tugs Octavia a couple steps away from the couch and leans in close before he speaks to her, but Bellamy can still make out every word. “What the hell am I supposed do? I’m not a nurse, I can’t fucking…I don’t…What’s even wrong with him?”

“I’m fine,” Bellamy says, trying to shove as much certainty into the words as he can.

“That’s a different tune than the one you were singing a couple minutes ago,” Octavia says.

Bellamy pushes the blanket away with a huff, plants his feet on the ground, and stands, but then he’s coughing so hard it doubles him over and the room spins and shit, maybe he actually _is_ dying. 

Octavia places her hands on his shoulders and pushes him back down onto the couch, covering him up again.

“Just because you’re not dying doesn’t mean you don’t need rest, Bell. Take it easy. Murphy’s got it.” She turns to Murphy, looks him in the eye, and repeats, “You’ve got it. Just take care of him.”

“Octavia—” Murphy starts.

She kisses Murphy’s cheek and while he makes a show of wiping it off, she kisses Bellamy’s forehead again. “I’m not asking you to check his pulse and give him a sponge bath, Murph. Just channel the empathy I know’s inside you somewhere for a few hours until I get back home.”

“ _He’s_ sitting right here,” Bellamy says, annoyed by every single thing happening in his life right now. Neither Octavia nor Murphy so much as look at him.

“Empathy?” Murphy crosses his arms. “Have you met me?”

Octavia studies Murphy for a moment, sighs, and says, “Yeah…Dig deep.”

She pats Murphy twice on the shoulder and then she’s gone, leaving Murphy and Bellamy alone to stare at each other over a coffee table littered with a variety of cough syrups and cold medicines and boxes of tissues.

“Well, fuck,” Murphy says finally, putting the can of soup down on the coffee table. He twists the cap off the whiskey and takes a long drink, then holds it out to Bellamy, lips shining. “Here, it’ll burn that shit out of you. But pace yourself ‘cause I’m not helping you take a piss.”

“Where’d you get that?” Bellamy asks before he can stop himself.

He tries not to remember how young Murphy is. He tries not to think about how Murphy could have anyone—has had a lot of someones—and therefore that his easy flirting with Bellamy is definitely, obviously just that: easy flirting; how that means Bellamy should not care about it the way he does, because it means nothing to Murphy. It can’t mean anything to Murphy. He does this with everyone.

It’s hard to manage on a good day. Today, it’s impossible.

Murphy rolls his eyes and barks out a laugh, shoving Bellamy’s feet aside long enough to sit down, then pulling Bellamy’s legs over his lap. “Jesus, Bell. Gotta be a cop even when you’re sick?” He rests his free hand over Bellamy’s shin and takes another drink.

This is an even worse idea than Bellamy thought it’d be. Octavia’s dead. He’s going to kill her with his bare hands as soon as he has the strength to stand up for longer than five seconds without nearly keeling over.

Bellamy sucks in a deep breath and pulls his legs off Murphy’s lap. He sits up and tugs the blanket back around himself, leaning against the arm on the opposite end of the couch. “It’s my job, Murphy, I can’t just stop doing it. Besides, you’re gonna kill your liver before you’re even legally old enough to be killing it.”

Murphy rolls his eyes and holds the bottle out again. “Full disclosure: this is as compassionate as I get, so take the booze or leave it.”

For a moment, Bellamy weighs the options in his head. He could say no, obviously. But when he says no, Murphy pouts. And when Murphy pouts, he gets even needier, even more handsy than usual. And when he does that…

“Fuck it,” Bellamy mutters. He leans over and grabs the bottle from Murphy’s hand. He takes a large swallow, wincing at the burn all the way down his throat.

“Attaboy!” Murphy says, clapping a hand on Bellamy’s back and scooting onto the center cushion. He drapes his arm over the back of the couch, hand resting on the nape of Bellamy’s neck.

Octavia’s _dead_.

“See, contributing to my delinquency’s not _so_ bad, is it?” Murphy grins and grins and grins. “Gotta say…It’s a good look on you, Bell.” He takes the whiskey back, moves to press the bottle back to his lips and Bellamy balks, hand flying to Murphy’s wrist and easing the bottle back down.

“You’ll get sick,” he says. “O thinks it’s the flu and if she’s right it’s super contag—”

Murphy smiles wide and takes a drink. “I’m already on your germ-encrusted couch, _mom_. Besides, it’s alcohol.”

And so Bellamy huffs and sits back and he’s quiet. There’s no arguing with Murphy once he’s made up his mind. Even if there was, he’s too tired and muscles he didn’t even know he had hurt and _god_ Murphy’s doing that thing with his fingers, tugging so gently on the hairs at the nape of his neck that he can’t stop the shiver that runs over him and it’s all too much.

“Wanna watch something?” Murphy asks. “Since these could be your final hours, I’ll cave and suffer through that detective shit you like.” He’s already grabbed the remote, turned on the television, and is flipping through channels before Bellamy manages to respond.

“Whatever’s fine,” he says.

Murphy raises an eyebrow. “Bellamy Blake, _not_ trying to hog the television?” He gapes his mouth in fake shock. “You really _are_ dying, aren’t you?”

Bellamy jams a finger into his ribs and Murphy laughs, loud and happy.

“If you felt like this, you wouldn’t give a shit about TV channels either,” Bellamy grumbles.

“Aw, don’t pout,” Murphy says, reaching up a hand to ruffle Bellamy’s hair. He pauses over Bellamy’s forehead, holds his palm there for a moment, furrows his brows and then holds the back of his hand there instead. “Shit, you actually are really warm.”

“Well, that does sometimes happen when people get very sick, Murphy.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Have you taken anything today?”

Bellamy studies him for a moment, the way his eyebrows are still furrowed together; the way his lips are drawn into a tight line. “Wow, I almost believe you actually give a shit.”

“Fuck off,” Murphy says, but he sits up and rifles through the medicine bottles. “I just don’t want you dying on my watch. Octavia’d be pissed. Here.” He picks out one with fever reducer and pours the thick liquid into a medicine cup, holding it out for Bellamy.

Bellamy crinkles his nose. “I already told Octavia, I’m not taking that shit.”

“Bellamy. Don’t be a baby.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Your temperature’s like five thousand degrees and O said you’ve been bitching and moaning all morning.” Murphy takes hold of Bellamy’s hand and pushes the cup into it. “Take it.”

And there’s something settled about the matter in Murphy’s eyes. Something that says Murphy will not back down from this, not until Bellamy caves. It’s not a look Bellamy’s seen on him before, far removed from Murphy’s typical carefree, spontaneous nature.

He really does almost, _almost_ feel like Murphy genuinely cares about his well-being.

Bellamy pinches his nostrils closed, brings the cup to his lips, and he drinks.

It’s bitter and horrible and leaves his face scrunched up and the back of his throat burning, but then Murphy’s taking the cup out of his hand and shoving the bottle of whiskey into it, and he’s drinking without thinking about whether or not it’ll fuck his liver to mix alcohol and cold medicine like this. He doesn’t care as long as this taste gets washed away.

“I’ll be sure to tell Octavia you deserve a gold star,” Murphy says, grinning wide and taking the whiskey to set it back on the table. “Maybe if you keep taking your medicine like a good boy, you’ll get a prize at the end of the week.”

Bellamy shoves Murphy’s shoulder and he exaggerates the effect, landing on his back on the couch and propping both legs in Bellamy’s lap, looking up at him with big, happy eyes.

“Don’t look so goddamn pleased with yourself. You’re supposed to be helping me _rest_ ,” Bellamy says, but he’s smiling too, despite himself.

“No one’s stopping you,” Murphy says, moving his arms to tuck them behind his head, making room on his chest and looking at Bellamy quietly, expectantly.

He keeps his eyes on Bellamy, grin a little less pronounced, as Bellamy hopes that his increasing internal panic is not as noticeable to Murphy as it is to himself. Bellamy wants to take his offer—he _really_ wants to—but he decided a long time ago that it isn’t worth going here with Murphy. It’s not worth the inevitable heartbreak when Murphy remembers he’s eighteen and doesn’t have a career yet or a sister to take care of, still has time to travel and explore and fuck whomever he wants without getting tied down to some cop who already has way too much baggage.

“You’d probably be able to rest better if you stopped thinking so fucking loud,” Murphy says, and then his legs are gone from Bellamy’s lap and he’s rolling onto his side, tucking his legs up to his chest and locking his eyes firmly on the television.

And, well… _Fuck_. This is exactly what Bellamy _didn’t_ want to happen.

“Murphy…”

“You can just say no like a fucking adult, Bellamy. You don’t have to stare at me like I’m a fragile fucking infant. I can take it.”

“It’s not…” he starts, but he can’t find the correct words. He sighs and tries again. “It’s not that I don’t want to—”

“Yet, here we are, you not doing it because you fucking… _Fuck_.”

Bellamy balks for a second, not entirely sure what to do. He’s been trying _so hard_ to keep his relationship with Murphy friendly, in a zone that keeps both of them happy and avoids the potential for complicated, hurt feelings. He’s been trying _so hard_ , but now Murphy’s upset anyway and he can’t, for the life of him, pin down why.

“Because I…What?” Bellamy asks.

“Forget it.” Murphy’s voice is muffled against the arm of the couch.

Bellamy places a hand on Murphy’s knee, and when he doesn’t shrug him off, he moves a little closer. “Talk to me, Murphy. Why are you upset?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Bellamy. You know why I’m upset.”

“No,” he says, and he really, actually means it. “I don’t know why. That’s why I want you to _talk to me_. Please.”

Murphy takes a deep breath and holds it for a long time before he lets it out. He keeps his eyes on the television and he says, very quickly, “Because I like you a lot, you fucking asshole, and I thought that was pretty clear and to be honest, I thought you kinda liked me too since you flirt back, but apparently I was wrong. Okay?” He glances over his shoulder at Bellamy, then back at the TV. “Fucking happy now?”

And Bellamy’s not sure what to do with that, so he sits with his hand still perched on Murphy’s knee and he tries to remember how to breathe with the fluttering in his chest and the knotting in his stomach. “Are you serious?”

“Nope, I’ve been coming over here and flirting with you all the time for shits and giggles.” Murphy sits up, pulls his legs away from Bellamy and glares at him. “Jesus, are you blind or dumb or just an asshole?”

“I…I…” Bellamy’s crashing and burning and he knows it, but he can’t make words. Murphy _actually_ likes him? “I thought you were just…flirting. I thought…Why the fuck would you like me?”

“Apparently, I have shit taste. Trust me, no one finds it as unfortunate as I do.”

Murphy stands up and Bellamy reacts without thinking, grabbing his wrist and standing too. The room spins a little but he keeps his balance. Murphy holds his elbow until he’s steady on his own feet. “You should lie back down, Bell. I’m gonna hang out in O’s room until she gets home. Just…yell if you need me, okay?”

Bellamy doesn’t know what to do. His brain stopped working a long time ago and his hand’s still holding Murphy’s wrist and his feet are carrying him one, two steps closer so they’re just inches apart, and there’s something sad and hopeful and wanting in Murphy’s eyes.

He slides his hand from Murphy’s wrist down into Murphy’s hand and cups his other on Murphy’s cheek. Murphy’s free hand finds his waist and for a second they just breathe, watching each other.

“Don’t do this out of some fucked up obligation,” Murphy whispers. “Don’t do it unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Bellamy says, and he kisses him.

Maybe it’s delirium from Bellamy’s fever that makes him do it. Maybe his brain has actually dissolved; it certainly hurts enough that he believes it could have. Maybe it’s the euphoria of hearing that Murphy does give a shit, isn’t just flirting with Bellamy because he’s here and available.

Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever he starts feeling better he’ll hate himself for acting on impulse like this, for leaving his future self this whole _thing_ with Murphy to sort out, but for now, he doesn’t care. Murphy’s lips are soft and sure and a little bit sweet like the whiskey. His hands are callused but gentle, warm against his hips. This is the best he’s felt all day, and whatever comes later can be handled then.

Murphy pulls away first, rests his forehead against Bellamy’s, and he’s grinning like he just got crowned a king. “What happened to not wanting to get me sick?”

Bellamy’s eyes widen and he pulls away. “Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he says, but Murphy laughs and guides him back onto the couch.

“I’m not worried about it,” he says, shrugging, putting his arm on the back of couch again, settling his fingers back on the nape of Bellamy’s neck. “Besides, if you do get me sick, you’ll have to take care of me as penance and I’ll be _sure_ to be as needy and helpless as you are. You’ll be waiting on me hand and foot, dropping grapes into my mouth and—”

Bellamy pinches his knee and Murphy jerks it up and away, laughing and laughing and laughing.

“Fat fucking chance,” Bellamy says, but he likes the sound of that, to be honest.

He really, really does.


End file.
